Just When Everyone Thought They Were Safe
by meldahlie
Summary: They killed Edgar Bones and his entire family. Why didn't the Lestranges find Neville? Winter, 1981


To make a Floo call:

Take can of Floo powder off mantelpiece.

Take a deep breath.

Take another deep breath.

Draw wand, conjure flames on hearth and take lid off Floo powder can, all in a rush.

Pause.

Take a deep breath –

"She can't bite your head off through the Floo, you know."

Alice Longbottom looks round with a jump. The sitting room door behind her has opened, just a crack, and Frank's head has popped round the edge. Grinning.

"I know That," she retorts, with a pseudo-disapproving shake of her head, contradicted by a smile at her husband. "Now go away, or she'll ask to speak to you, not me."

The floating head winks, blows her a cheeky kiss, and vanishes, shutting the door behind him.

Alice takes another deep breath, to replace the interrupted one – and throws the pinch of Floo powder into the flames: "Augusta Longbottom's!"

~:~

"Hello? Aug- er – M-mother? Mother?"

Augusta Longbottom pauses on her way upstairs, as a voice echoes uncertainly out from the kitchen. There are only two people in the world who call her that. One is her son Frank. The other...

Augusta purses her lips, but turns downstairs again to the kitchen.

"Alice. How are you?"

She puts the same question, in the same tone, to the milk-wizard when she meets him – he shows more spunk in answering. It was obvious from the first that Alice didn't have much courage – a strange specimen of a Gryffindor. Augusta wasn't really surprised that the country was, until last week, going to the krups by way of the Dark side, if the Auror department is filled with inadequate creatures like Alice.

The round face in the flames is still smiling – in a kind of feebly determined way. "Fine, thank you, er-..."

Augusta cuts her off before there's any struggle over names again. "Frank? Neville?"

"They're fine, yes, fine... I, er-" Alice swallows nervously. "Er, I – Frank's been asked to a special Auror 'do'," she blurts out in a sudden change of tack.

Augusta frowns at the slang, but she can't help feel the usual glow of pride. She knew Frank would be an outstanding Auror – talent and flair, a credit to the Longbottoms. That was one of the reasons for disapproving of...

Alice is ploughing on again. "Just the top brass, er – rather select – a bit short notice. Er – so, er, er – would you – would you baby-sit Neville? As a favour?"

A favour. Augusta knew a favour was coming up somewhere here, ever since she heard the voice in the kitchen. She made her views about hasty war-time marriages to unsuitable witches perfectly clear at the time – and the consequence is that her daughter-in-law never just Floo-calls for a chat. When Alice ever actually plucks up the courage to call, instead of making Frank do it, it is always for a favour.

"Baby-sit Neville?" Augusta repeats coldly. She is not going to be encouraging. Neville is Frank's son. Therefore, he has potential. But equally, he is Alice's son. She is suspending judgement until she sees how he turns out. It makes the occasional baby-sitting favour a rather austere business.

"Frank thought you might be able to help," Alice falters. "But if you're too busy, I expect I could ask Elizabeth Fenwick, she'd understan– "

Augusta bristles. She is _never_ too busy for her family. "Don't snap me up, please, Alice. I was merely trying to clarify the situation. Do you mean tonight?"

"Oh! Yes." Alice's head bobs up and down in an absurd way that illustrates how futile it is to nod when making a Floo call. "It's very short notice, really, the invitation and all, but..."

Augusta wonders if it really is short notice, or if Alice simply hadn't dared ask her until the last minute – but that doesn't alter her duty: "Very well. I am going to Griselda's tomorrow evening, but I will be free tonight. What time?"

Alice has flushed with relief. "About seven? The 'do's' at eight, so I'll Floo through with Neville before then, get him settled and all–"

Augusta is fairly certain she is capable of settling her own grandson, but she is above debating this. "Very well." She straightens up to cut off Alice's stream of now voluble if disjointed thanks. "Until this evening, then."

~:~

It is nearer half-past seven when the flames in the kitchen hearth flare green, and the spinning forms of Augusta's daughter-in-law and grandson step out onto the hearth – Alice, as usual, managing to lose her balance and knock over the coal scuttle. Forgetful, clumsy, nervous – Augusta sincerely hopes Neville has not inherited anything more from that side of his family than his currently rather round face.

At least since Neville's arrival she and Alice are spared the awkwardness of any physical greeting. Alice simply plonks Neville into Augusta's arms with the instruction: "Give Granny a hug, now. And one from Daddy. And one from Mummy."

He is an obedient little chap, administering three massive hugs with the typical enthusiasm of a one-year-old, until Augusta feels somewhat choked. Between those and the rather wet kiss Neville adds of his own accord before letting go, she misses the start of what Alice is saying.

"...his blanket, and pillow, and a spare set of night-robes in case you need them... oh, and his stuffed lion."

Augusta picks up the lion from the basket and hands it to Neville. It is a rather battered creature, but it used to be Frank's, and she is delighted with the way Neville has taken to it since she entrusted its welfare to him six months ago. He waves it joyfully by the tail now, and crawls off under the kitchen table.

Alice is still talking. "...a bit past his bedtime, so I'm sure he'll settle soon. He's not really being fed too much overnight now, but if he wakes and won't settle, I've fixed you this bottle of formula as a treat for him..."

Augusta takes the item by her fingertips and puts it on the counter in silence. In her day, witches had never even _dreamed_ of such disgusting things – if you had a baby, you fed your baby, and you didn't go gallivanting o'nights until you had weaned him. She had stayed at home for two years with Frank, and he was a credit to it. Modern young witches–!

"When will you be back?" she asks coldly.

Alice pauses in mid-ramble. "Not too late," she says with a hopeful smile. "It's starting at eight, so Frank said to tell you we'll try and leave a bit early, and we'll come here first to pick Neville up."

'A bit early' last time was one o'clock in the morning – but Augusta can see, as ever, that nothing she can say will change matters. So she nods, and looks Alice up and down instead. "Are you going in that?"

Alice's face brightens at the question, and then fades as the temperature of Augusta's gaze penetrates the unsuitably thin fabric of her dress robes. "Frank likes it," she protests with unaccustomed defensiveness.

Augusta says no more. If she doesn't ask, she won't have to _know_ that there is neither proper hat nor handbag to accompany that outfit. "Come and say goodbye to Mummy, Neville."

He whizzes out from under the table to administer several hugs and kisses that make Augusta realise she got off lightly, and then he stands sensibly, holding her hand, to wave 'bye-bye' as Alice conjures the Floo, blows him a last kiss, and vanishes.

Perhaps now they will have peace.

It is almost eight o'clock – the hour at which all sensibly brought-up Longbottom babies are safe asleep in bed, so Augusta wastes no time in installing Neville in the big armchair in the drawing room. It is the chair Frank used to like, and with only Neville's hair sticking out from under the blanket, and the stuffed lion tucked in beside him, Augusta can almost imagine that it _is _Frank...

...That the world _is _safe; there has _not_ just been a horrific wizarding war, that has just been won so abruptly and mysteriously one would almost have been less startled if it had been lost; half the people she has always known in society have _not_ just died for their beliefs or been flung into Azkaban; her only son has _not_ gone and married an unsuitable witch in complete defiance of her wishes...

Augusta putters quietly into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and then settles back into her favourite chair, opposite Fra – Neville, to watch, and dream...

She hopes Frank is having a nice time at the Ministry 'do.'

Neville snores just the least bit – just like Frank used to.

She hopes they won't really leave too early...

~:~

Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong!

It isn't the clock striking that wakes Augusta. It's that it doesn't finish striking. It was quarter past nine when she last looked, and she had only nodded off for a moment, what with the warm fire, and the lamp turned low for Neville's sake. It should have struck ten – and it hasn't.

She sits up a little straighter, her neck protesting that she's had it cricked at a funny angle on the wing of the chair for a while, and peers at the clock.

It – it – it says four o'clock in the morning?

Neville is fast asleep. Augusta is wide awake. The clock must be wrong – but at that very moment, the little clock in the hall, which is always one minute late no matter what charms the clock-winders apply, strikes as well:

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

It is four o'clock in the morning. It is four o'clock in the morning, and a quick glance round shows Augusta that she is quite definitely awake, in her own house, with nobody but her grandson. At four o'clock in the morning?

"_...we'll try and leave a bit early..."_

Augusta frowns, to try and suppress the vague feeling of panic that is stirring, somewhere inside her. The war _is_ over; You-Know-Who _is_ gone; everybody _is_ safe now...

Neville is stirring in the brighter light where she turned the lamp up, and she picks him up to reassure.

Him or herself?

"A bit early, Neville?" she remarks crisply. "We'll have something to say to Mummy and Daddy when they get back, won't we?"

~:~FINIS~:~


End file.
